By ,

Perusing this work is akin to watching paint dry. It’s that dull. Judy mopes from one plot point to the next with the enthusiasm of someone cleaning a litter box. The apathy is more overwhelming than the smell emanating from the box (metaphorically speaking). And it is as long as it is dreary, the author droning on incessantly about the subject while periodically pausing to make a snide comment. The end product is completely uninspired and bitter, and the audience deserves better.

It is one thing to feel disappointment in one’s subject matter, but even that disappointment should be conveyed in a way that is interesting to the reader. Relaying indifference indifferently, as the author does here, merely reveals his reluctance to relay it at all. This tends to distance the audience, thereby defeating the purpose the work is created for.

Alas, Judy’s emotional detachment transforms what might have been a well-crafted assessment of his subject into a morose, dry, diatribe of resentment and despair. One truly feels the pain the author obviously felt while writing this. It is, quite simply, a miserable piece of text that readers should avoid at all costs.